


and cursed be the one who comes between them

by mwildsides



Category: Captain America
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Song of Ice and Fire, M/M, and a whole lot of other people that I won't clog the tags with
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 09:14:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mwildsides/pseuds/mwildsides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"...one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	and cursed be the one who comes between them

**Author's Note:**

> I just don't even know where to begin with this labor of not-quite-love but thanks SO much to Christy for the desperately needed beta!!
> 
> (also: all asoif things (houses, lands etc etc) belong totally to GRRM, and marvel characters to their respective owners. no profit is being made etc etc.)

By nearly midday, Lord Steven Tully had had quite enough of petitioners. That seemed always the case, however, when he had to hold audience for the men and women of Riverrun to voice their complaints. It wasn’t to say he didn’t like them, or that their requests were frivolous or folly, even if on occasion, some were. In fact, it had nothing to do with the lot of them; hearing petitions simply became boring after hours and _hours_ of the same thing. 

 _“Were a pack of wild dogs, milord, tore nearly half m’sheep in two. Ate out their insides.”_ Or some variation of the sort. Wolves and cattle, hawks and bunnies. There was the occasional familial dispute, and even more rarely a rape, in which case Steven dispatched two guards for the petitioner in question to lead to the accused, and generally, the brought back some limb: hands or cock or otherwise. And on and on went the Lord Tully’s justice. 

Tedious as it all was, there wasn’t much else he would be doing. The day was dismal at best, a heavy, wet sleet falling from a flat sheet of unbroken grey clouds. None of the Seven Kingdoms were spared winter’s un-pleasantries, not even the south, but Steven, though he’d been born and grew up in Riverrun, _hated_ the cold and especially the wet cold that plagued the Riverlands. That sort of chill seemed to soak not only through one’s clothes, but through the skin as well, straight down to bone and marrow until nothing could warm you, save a good night’s sleep by the fire. Still, there were mornings he’d wake up cold. 

This one had been no exception, and the best he could do was call for a little mulled wine when he broke his fast, and bring along his wolfskin cloak to the great hall. The fur was thick on that particular cloak, but then Northerners always knew better how to fashion clothes to keep out the chill. Theirs was a dry cold, however; easier to rid oneself of, and yet no less deadly than the bitter moist of the Riverlands. Steven wrapped the cloak a bit tighter around himself attempting to keep from hiding the bottom half of his face in the fur as he listened to a petitioner argue a case about missing livestock and a quarrel with his brother in law. Sitting there, up on the dais, in the chair that the Tully lords had been sitting for a thousand years didn’t exactly help either. His feet went numb and tingled, from the cold or inactivity he couldn’t tell, but shifting didn’t make the old wooden chair with its carved trout any more comfortable. 

“ - his daughter of seven and ten, but I never heard nothing of the sort, milord, he never told me nothin’ of it. So my lady wife, see, won’t come ‘round t’my side of things,” The petitioner, a man of maybe fifty years with a work hardened body and balding, grey head, finished, blessedly, and Steven gave him a smile. 

“Well I’m afraid that where you wife is concerned I can’t help you, but I can give you six silver stags for everyone’s troubles. Do you think that might be enough to settle the conflict at least somewhat?” Steven wrote down _six silver stags_ on the scroll where he’d been keeping track of the day’s progress and other monetary compensations, before motioning to the page next to him to deliver the man his coin. 

“Aye, milord, thank you. Thank you,” he said, smiling as he ducked his head, and waited for his due. In the meantime, while a man at arms selected the next petitioner, and Steven yawned discreetly into his wolfskin, a few shouts went up outside the doors of the hall, before the groan of the old, giant slabs of wood sounded through the hall as they were pushed open. Straightening in his seat, Steven looked to maester Strange at his side, though the man simply gave him a shrug, and a twist of his mouth under his greying black beard, that said he had no idea they were expecting a guest. 

Looking back to where the crowd of petitioners had parted for the two riders, the lord frowned, and stood, for he swore... no, he knew that silhouette. A smile parted his lips so suddenly and so fervently that it hurt his cheeks, numb as they were from the cold. 

“My lord, Ser James Stark of Winterfell and Natalia of Braavos,” Another of the men-at-arms announced, one who stood amongst the throng of petitioners to keep order. 

“Yes, thank you William, I think I know who they are,” Standing from the chair, Steven pushed his wolfskin from his shoulders and rounded the long table where he sat, making his way down the steps from the dais. As the riders approached, soaking wet and dripping, their mounts muddy to the ankle, the figures a top them came into view in the low light that streamed through the high windows on either side of the hall.   For a moment he was distracted by the quiet gasp from many of the petitioners, and some parted as well for the big beast that stalked after the riders, dripping a trail of its own. It trotted well ahead of the crowd and the two horses, even when they drew to a halt so their riders could swing down in a clatter of boot falls. 

Meantime, Steven grinned and opened his hands as the direwolf trotted over the open floor between the crowd and where he stood at the dais. It came straight to him, bumping its head against the lord’s belly. “Very glad to see you too, Bones,” he chuckled, scratching his fingers into the wolf’s thick coat. It was a wildling beast, a gift, whose name merely meant something like “Bones” in the language of the Free Folk, and he belonged to James. To everyone save a select few people, including himself and Natalia, Bones was a rather amenable animal, but to strangers, and anyone who seemed a threat, he was as savage as any other wild creature, though he was driven by loyalty. 

“Excuse the interruption, my lord,” James said with a broad smile as he swung down from his courser, boots squelching when they hit the stone floor of the hall. 

“Not at all. It’s quite welcome, actually,” Steven replied as he stepped forward to greet his friend. The two men grinned at one another like fools before they met, throwing their arms around each other as the whole audience of petitioners looked on with quiet murmurs that were commonplace wherever James went. 

When Steven broke the embrace, he held his friend at arm’s length, drenched as he was by the weather, and patted his shoulder. “A pleasant surprise, really. You know how bored to tears all this lordly business makes me,” he told his friend in a hushed voice, smiling subtly. James raised his eyebrows, heaving a sigh. 

“Well I’m afraid I’ve brought you more lordly business,” he said, stepping back from Lord Tully, and glancing back to Natalia as her mount stamped at the ground, impatient after their journey. Steven looked at his friend expectantly, dropping his hands to his sides. 

“Yes? And?” He asked, shifting his gaze to the hall of petitioners who looked on, no doubt waiting what news the two knights had brought. 

“Men from the North are not two days behind us,” James said, and another murmur passed through the hall. “Five hundred from my sister in Winterfell, nearly three from the Dreadfort, barely half that from White Harbor and Barrowton, and another three from the New Gift.” 

When the petitioners heard mention of the Gift, their murmurs rose in pitch, as that meant wildlings. Lord Tully looked at them all, then back to where maester Strange sat at the table above the dais. “Send ravens to Harrenhall, Pinkmaiden, and Acorn Hall. I assume The Frey’s have seen you already.” First, Steven addressed his maester, who nodded and rose from his seat, and second, he spoke to James. 

“I did. Lord Frey is behind us as well, with a handful of his own men,” James said with a firm nod. Steven frowned, wondering where to go from here, after hearing that, essentially, he was in fact going to war. It had been brewing to the South, with the ever-restless Lannister child-lord and his qualms with the king’s ward, but Steven had hoped it wouldn’t come to all-out war. 

“Well needs must...” He sighed, pushing a hand through his hair, before looking to his friend again. “Get yourself - yourselves cleaned up and fed. You and I can speak more on this when I’m finished here, I’ll send for you.” He gave James a nod, who returned it with stern understanding, and turned back to his horse, calling for Bones to come along while Steven went back to his lordly duties.

 

-

 

Once the petitioners had dispersed, having, for the most part, been given what they wanted, Lord Tully returned to his rooms with the treasury’s totals from the day tucked under his arm. Inside, he found a veritable feast set out on the table of his solar; roast honeyed capons and bacon-wrapped trout were set out with pease and onions and turnips to go along with all of it. No doubt maester Strange had told this page or the man-at-arms to send down to the kitchens, expecting that their lord would have company once he was finished. That assumption was correct, of course, because Steven had immediately sent a man for James just as soon as he had left the great hall, but he didn’t think they would be sitting down for a meal. 

Still, Steven picked at one of the capons for a moment, before pouring himself a cup of the Arbor red that had been set out on the table as well, and went to the trestle table he used as a desk. He pushed aside scrolls and letters and quills alike aside, till his map, or the Southern portion of it, was visible, and he looked for a while between King’s Landing, Riverrun, and Casterly Rock. 

Frowning deeply, the lord sighed, trying to sort out all the preparations that would need to be made in the next several days. Provisions would have to be made for his own men from Riverrun, two thousand, he estimated, would be sufficient after he knew the numbers of men coming from the North. Whatever strength Pinkmaiden, High Heart, and Acorn Hall could muster would be their lord’s responsibility, as would feeding and arming them, so Steven didn’t worry too much about them in his tallies. 

Winter would make the campaign all the harder on not only the men who followed Steven to the South, but the people of Riverrun, from those at court to the smallfolk alike. The season was hard enough as it was, but war would spread things all the more thin, and make living miserable; a thing of which Steven knew too well. 

Before he could fall to deep into plans and preparations and his thoughts, the door to his rooms opened, then closed quietly as if whoever it was, was attempting to be stealthy. Steven didn’t bother to look up, already quite sure he knew who had come in, and instead looked to the West of his map, to Casterly Rock and the surrounding castles. 

“Should I come back later?” James called, although they both knew he wouldn’t be leaving any time soon. Inhaling deeply, Steven turned away from his desk and took up the wine he had poured as he looked to his friend, who was picking at some of the food laid out on the table as well. 

“No, I was looking over a few things. Sit down, eat if you like,” he said with a smile, waving a hand to one of the chairs as he looked James over. He wore a simple, grey woolen tunic and black leather breeches, his short-cropped hair a little damp from what had undoubtedly been a hot bath. 

“Not particularly hungry,” James said with a shrug and a wry smile as he filled a cup with the Arbor red as well, and took a sip. “For food or wine, anyhow.” 

Steven gave him a lopsided smile in return and set his cup on the table, near some of the rapidly cooling food. “Here to talk war with me then, ser?” That much made James smile. 

“That can wait a while, I suppose, _my lord,_ ” he replied, tone a bit mocking, because he knew how Steven hated when James called him any of his titles in private. Both of them hated the titles period; ser, Lord, bastard, anything other than their true born names rubbed them both the wrong way. Steven didn’t think he had or ever would grow into the title of Lord of Riverrun, and James didn’t think himself much of a knight (though his friend would always protest that), but such were the state of things, and they could leave all that when they were alone together. 

Which hadn’t happened in some time, Steven reminded himself, and suddenly he was alight with the need to touch his friend; pull off the soft tunic he wore to check him for wounds--because no doubt, James had acquired them on his journey, even if it was for something as simple as visiting his sister. 

They looked at one another for a few moments, silent, before both men moved, stepping toward one another till they met near the middle of the table. Steven didn’t hesitate to take James’ face between his hands, pulling him in till their lips met, rough and a little uneven, but it was enough for both of them to finally touch like this. James made a soft sound, almost a grunt of relief, as his hands fisted in the fine navy velvet of Steven’s doublet, stepping closer, though there wasn’t much space left between them now that they were pressed chest-to-chest. 

“You’re not to leave again,” Steven whispered, pulling away for a split second, his hands dragging through his friend’s hair, gripping at it gently. “That’s a command. No more... errands,” he paused to press a kiss to James’ lips again, very suddenly desperate, “Natalia can take care of all that. I’ll make you head of my guard if I must, but I - ...” 

James cut him off with yet another kiss, this one deeper, though not much longer. “Or you could always come with me. Leave Riverrun to some other noble whelp.” 

Their faces still close, Steven chuckled. “You’d like that wouldn’t you, if we ran back to Braavos, or some such nonsense.” 

“You’d like Braavos. They have little rivers everywhere, it’d feel just like home to you,” James mumbled, looking down to where his fingers were already working at the clasps of the other man’s doublet. “But what _I’d_ like is to quit talking. Take me back to bed, and bring the wine.”

Steven laughed, and withdrew long enough to grab the flagon of wine off the table. 

 

 

They’d been making love since they were young, it felt like. Steven’s first memory of James was seeing him in the castle when they were no more than one and ten. Five years later, when they were both men grown, James kissed the young lordling in a ruined stable on the banks of the Tumblestone. It had been pouring rain, just like it was now, as Steven stared out over Riverrun, and the village that surrounded the castle where he spent the first several years of his life. 

Steven Tully was born to smallfolk parents, Sarah, a seamstress, and Joseph, a rather prominent blacksmith. From what he was told, his father made armor for many a knight and even the Lord of Riverrun, who visited the forge often, which was how he was eventually introduced to Steven and Sarah. He was young when his father died, so much so that Steven hardly had a memory of the event, but he did recall his mother’s tears, and after that, how much he had missed the smell of the forge fires outside of their home. There was also a vague memory, before that, that Steven had, of his father on a horse, and he imagined that it was the last time he saw his father. 

When he was grown, the late Abraham Tully had explained that Steven’s father had died in service to his Lord, during the Seven Winter’s War that had been waged in the South for some years. At that age Steven didn’t know much about war or lords and their politics, so he hadn’t understood fully, which, he imagined, had been part of why the late Lord Tully had returned to his mother and father’s small house near the forge. Again, Steven didn’t remember much, save for how his mother had stumbled over herself upon seeing the lord and two of his men reign their horses up in front of their home, and the two tall men that came inside with Abraham. Steven had sat on a stool near the door and looked at the knights in their blue-tinted armor that glinted in the light from the hearth. 

His next memory after that, was coming to live at the castle, and the rooms he and his mother were put in. They were warmer than he remembered their home being, and his bed--well he had his own bed, and it was soft, with a fine fur coverlet. The morning after that he had broken his fast with Lord Tully, and he remembered being scared and intrigued, and that he ate himself sick on all of the rich, delicious food that had been set out for them, the likes of which, as a commoner, he’d never tasted or even seen. Lord Tully asked him if he wanted to be a knight, a fighting man like his father, to which Steven had nodded adamantly. At the time he didn’t know how much smaller he was than the other boys his age, or just how often he was sick, but as he grew older, and began to realize, though he never would give up the hope of becoming a night. 

He also learned to call the castle at Riverrun his home. He learned to ride, when he wasn’t abed with this sickness or that (after which the women his mother worked with in the castle, remarked that he must have been touched by one of the Seven, to be able to survive being so weak and sickly), and discovered his love for the rivers, the Tumblestone and the Red Fork, and all the things he would eventually call home. As Steven grew, he spent more and more time with Lord Tully as well, a kind man, and gentle; a true Tully, unlike Steven. The boy often acted as squire for the lord, and more and more, they shared meals, rode together by the rivers, and when Steven was old enough, Abraham took him out on hunts with the older knights. It was some of the happiest he had ever been. 

Not long after his ninth nameday, Steven’s mother fell ill with a terrible fever and violent cough, though he wasn’t permitted to spend much time with her then, for fear he too would catch her sickness, and the illness might spread. He stayed in the Lord’s tower, in his own rooms meant for the true Tully family, though he couldn’t seem to sleep the nights that he knew his mother was lying awake, suffering, dying. Lord Tully sent his own maester to tend to Sarah, but she didn’t survive very long after the sickness took her. Steven visited her on her last night, for which he would forever be grateful, because he had told her he loved her, that he would do what his lord commanded, and that he would, as his mother bade him, be a good boy. 

Abraham took him in as a son soon after that, and bereft as he was, Steven accepted whatever comfort he could find. Though his mother and father were both of the Seven, he spent many a day in Riverrun’s godswood, a peaceful place full of light and tall, tall redwoods that made Steven feel like an insect. The weirwood tree provided him some comfort too, though he wasn’t entirely sure why, because he knew next to nothing of the Old Gods, other than the fact that they were only worshipped in the North. At Winterfell. 

The next year, he met James. 

The bastard boy of Lord George Stark and a wildling woman of the New Gift, James was still greatly loved by his lord father, and as he awaited to be proclaimed legitimate by the King, the boy was sent to foster at Riverrun with Lord Tully. Abraham had introduced Steven to James as his son, a boy younger than Steven’s ten years, but he had made a face, eyebrow arched skeptically. 

“Don’t Tully’s have dark hair?” He asked, looking up at the lord, who simply smiled and ruffled Steven’s pointedly golden hair. 

“He has his lady mother’s hair,” Abraham replied, and it wasn’t completely a lie; Steven did look like his mother, the lord often told him later on in his life. 

James and Steven became friends out of forced proximity, but when Steven was a man grown, he would look back and knew that they would have found one another eventually, and that their meeting was fated. As boys, however, they trained at longbow and sword and shield in the yard together with Abraham’s master at arms, Dugan, who was a stout man, younger than Lord Tully, and who loved to laugh at the boys. Steven eventually grew out of his small, sickly body the more he trained, and the more time he spent with James. 

Both boys were set on becoming knights and exploring the Seven Kingdoms, Essos, and all the lands that lay to the east with one another, though their fathers (or lords, in Steven’s case) both had different ideas. James didn’t yet know that he was a bastard, when he came to Riverrun, as his father thought it best to spare his only son the indignities, as Lord Stark pleaded with the king to proclaim his son legitimate. James had a sister that had just been born when he was sent away, but he hadn’t been allowed to see her much, because Lady Stark, knowing that he was a bastard, didn’t like him much. She died soon after Rebecca’s birth, however, and the grieving Lord of Winterfell went on with his plans for his son. 

Abraham Tully’s wife had died years ago, so long ago that Steven had absolutely no memory of her, or even what her name had been. She had left him childless as well, a grievous thing for a lord, but in Steven, he saw someone fit to be the next Lord of Riverrun. Steven figured out as much, eventually, even before Abraham told him that Steven was to be declared his son and heir. He was two and ten at the time, and conflicted at the idea of being a lord, holed up in his great river castle, destined to marry a girl and have sons of his own, perhaps fight a war, then die an old man. At that age, he wanted that, but also to live like the stories his mother had read to him of knights and ladies, princesses and lions and all the wars of Westeros. His true dream, as a boy, was to be a member of the King’s Guard. 

As they would both come to figure out, the plans they had as boys were more dreams than anything else. 

They were close, though, the very best of friends, and it was obvious to anyone who saw them together. In training, they didn’t so much fight as they did test one another constantly, pushing one another to better their skills, simply become better each time, and they did that in many other things as well. They were both good fighters by the time they reached four and ten, and both could read and write, and loved to do both as well, though Bucky preferred his longbow and dapple mare to _An History of the Great Sieges of Westeros_ by Archmaester Ch’Vyalthan. 

That wasn’t to say that James didn’t love to hear Steven read, however. On days when it wasn’t raining, the boys rode out along the banks of the Tumblestone and found a decent tree by a decent bank and laid themselves out on the grass, reading and swimming and sipping from a skin of wine. The days that the rain came down too heavy for anyone to ride near the banks of the river, James and Steven played, chasing each other throughout the castle, games of hide-and-seek and come-into-my-caste. Either days were good days. In fact any time Steven spent with James was treasured, because the older boy not only looked up to him, but he couldn’t get enough of his presence, truth be told. 

The day James first kissed Steven, was one they planned on spending as they usually did on sunny days, basking in warmth and cooling themselves in the Tumblestone, though soon after they had set out, the rain came pelting down on them, and instead of turn back right away, the two young men took shelter in a ruin of rocks and rotted wood with their horses. Both were soaked to the bone, but the ruin was dry, for the most part, and had space enough for the two of them and both of their horses. When they swung down from their mounts, James was laughing, his brown hair plastered to his forehead and his cheeks a little red from the cold, much like Steven’s. 

“What’s so funny?” The older boy had asked as he opened his saddlebags to check on the book he had brought with him, an ancient tome from Riverrun’s library. They were dry, so he shut the bag and turned to his friend, who was trying to shake off his hair like a dog, though it was a bit too short of that. 

“Well we’re going to have to go back some time. If we hole up here till the rain stops, we’ll be here for days. You’ll have to butcher the horses so we can eat,” James said with a smile, wiping the water from his face with the back of his already soaked sleeve, before he loosened the wine skin from his belt, and uncorked the top. Steven shrugged, looking out at the sheets of rain, and the way it mottled the surface of the river. 

“It may let up soon, if only a little, and it will be better for the horses then,” he replied, as James made a motion to offer his friend the wine. Steven stepped toward the other boy to take the skin, and take a sip of the drink. It was a red, something from Dorne most likely, rich and deep with flavor. 

“Still,” James said, grabbing the skin back with a smile.

Steven pushed at his sword belt a little, hooking his thumbs into it, as he raised his eyebrows at the other boy. “Then what do _you_ think we should do?” 

“We can keep with your plan,” James answered, nodding and recapping the wine skin. “In the meantime...” He looked around their ramshackle shelter, at their horses and the rain and the river, before his grey-brown eyes finally settled on Steven for a while. 

“What is it?” The older boy asked, smiling a subtly as he looked around himself, trying to find what his friend could be staring at, but when he lifted his gaze to James again, he found the other boy was stepping toward him quickly. He rested a warm, damp hand against Steven’s cheek, cool from the wind and the rain, before he pressed their mouths together in a kiss. Under his lips, Steven’s were parted lightly in shock, and it took nothing for James to open his as well, and run his tongue along his friend’s bottom lip. 

Steven inhaled sharply, shocked, but otherwise he didn’t move, didn’t withdraw, and so James pushed forward a little more, hands moving to Steven’s arms. He took a step forward, pushing his friend toward one of the three walls left standing. Steven was no longer shorter than he was, because in the time they had known each other, he had outgrown his smallness, and surpassed James now by about an inch, just like he did in age. When his back hit the old brick, Steven made another small sound, raising his hands to cradle James’ head, before finally, finally pressing into the kiss just a bit more. 

It was the first of many things, and it was nice, so much so that the two stayed in the tumbled-down stables for much longer than they had meant to, kissing, pulling away only long enough to take a deep breath, and laugh at one another. Once they finally pried themselves apart, and swung back onto their horses, they made their way back to Riverrun, only to be met by Lord Tully’s men, who took them up to his tower for a scolding. It was late, the sun nearly down and dinner set out by the time they were ushered into Abraham’s solar, to find him looking irate, and sitting at his supper. 

Still, it was something neither of them forgot, or even took for granted. 

After that day, things between them changed. Whenever he could, whenever they were alone in the halls of Riverrun, or out on the banks of the rivers, Steven stole a kiss from James, sometimes lingering when they had the time and privacy. It didn’t take long for James to sneak into Steven’s room at night, grinning like a wolf as he padded across the rushes to his friend’s bed to slip under the covers, and shift close to Steven. They spend plenty of nights that way, close and warm, murmuring things to one another between presses of lips and passes of exploring hands. Those were firsts as well. 

At six and ten, they were men grown, and as far as anyone else was concerned, James and Steven were closer than they’d ever been. No one saw them together during the time they had together in secret, and so no one was the wiser that what their friendship had evolved into was a different sort of love. It was nice, however, being able to have someone so close, someone to hold and touch and, though they had always had one another for it, someone to confide everything in. Steven had no family left, save for the Lord Tully who really wasn’t his blood, and though he was the kindest man Steve had ever met, he only felt like that, not family, per se. James, though, was different. He was a brother, a friend, a lover, he was _everything_ to Steven, and that thought was almost frightening, knowing that he loved someone as much as he loved James, but he knew there was nothing wrong with it. 

Almost a year after, however, things changed. James overheard a conversation of Lord Tully’s one evening, discussing another, one Lord Stark, and most importantly, something about his bastard boy. Before then, James had had no idea that he was no true born Stark; his father kept it from him because he was young, preferring to just gloss over the fact that James’s mother had been a wildling woman. She died soon after James’s birth, after she returned to the New Gift to her people, but James had absolutely no idea. He had never even guessed, so when he heard Lord Tully mention as much (and because he was a young man of ten and seven, full of energy and life and anger), he burst into the lord’s solar, demanding answers. 

James not only found out that he was a bastard, during that conversation, but also that his father had, while visiting the Wall, fell from the wooden stair that lead to the top of the Wall, and wasn’t expected to live much longer, for he didn’t seem to be healing. It was a hard night, Steven remembers. James had come to him after his conversation with Lord Tully, and though he hadn’t spoken much afterward, he explained to Steven, in tears, what had happened. Steven simply held him as they sat on his bed, until James eventually fell asleep in his arms. 

Not a week later, James left. It scared Steven, but in a way he understood what his friend had to do--see his father before his death, and try for answers from him--and even so, it didn’t make his leaving any easier. Steven had followed Bucky through the castle, down to the lower bailey of the castle, and to the stables, frantically needing every last moment with his friend. 

“I could go with you, you know,” Steven called, and he’d brought it up before, but he felt desperate, wanted to do anything that would let him keep Bucky for a little longer. “I’ve never been to Winterfell. Or North at all. I want to see your h - “

James rounded on him, the horses huffing and whinnying in their stables, and the rushes crackling under their feet. It was the early morning, and the sun slanted into the stables windows, making the small space glow with a morning chill. “This isn’t about Winterfell, or the North. It isn’t even about me. I have to see my father, and when...” His voice trailed off for a moment, his eyes moving away from Steven for a moment. “When all is said and done I’ll return. I promise.” 

Steven knew very well that this was something his friend needed to do, and after all, his father was dying. He simply didn’t want to watch James go; over the years there hadn’t been a day when they weren’t together, and now looking on months and months of absence made Steven a little sick to his stomach. He knew, objectively, he’d be fine without James, he just didn’t _want_ to be without him. 

“I’m sorry I’m - going to miss you, that goes without saying, I think,” Steven replied, his smile small and sad. James cocked a half smile as well and glanced around before settling a hand against Steven’s neck, and leaning in close, head tilted upward. 

“I know. And I’m going to miss you too. I’ll send a raven when I get to Winterfell. No longer than a fortnight, I promise you that, too,” he murmured, his nose brushing Steven’s, and his breath was warm against the older boy’s lips. Steven pressed forward slightly, hands coming to rest on James’ waist. 

“I’ll hold you to all of them, Stark.” Quickly, he grinned, before leaning in till their lips met. 

It was the last time for over ten years. 

James did send a raven when he reached Winterfell, explaining how his father was, and how his journey was, though otherwise he didn’t have much else to say, besides the fact that the weather was ugly, and he missed sleeping beside Steven. That was a small comfort, but one of the only ones Steven received while James was gone. Another raven came heralding Lord Stark’s death, months later, with a few brief words from James to let Steven know he was traveling to the New Gift next, though after that, there was silence, and it was awfully hard for Steven. 

Years went by without any word. Lord Tully fell ill soon after Steven turned three and twenty, and though he was very ill, he fought against it, and lived for longer than any of the summoned maesters had thought.  Steven stayed by his side as much as was possible, though already he was beginning to take on the tasks of his lord father. And he had become a father to Steven over the years, even if he hadn’t noticed it happening all at once, or how much Abraham Tully meant to him until his death was imminent. It was made even harder by James’ absence, and the fact that Steven had sent letters, both to Winterfell and North, to the New Gift and the Wall, simply hoping for a word about his friend’s whereabouts, but there were none to be had. 

When Abraham Tully died, the lordship was passed to his “son” and heir, and at three and twenty, Steven was declared Lord of Riverrun, Warden of Riverlands. As sudden as it was, Steven took to being a leader like ravens to corn; it seemed to be in his blood, and it wasn’t long before the people of Riverrun learned that he was a kind and fair lord, and fiercely protective of his people. The only animosity he ever encountered, when it came to politics of the realm, was with the two lord with which the whole realm was at odds with. 

House Lannister had never been a friend of the Tully’s, or so Steven saw it, and he understood why, but for the sake of peace, he oft visited with the Lord of Lannister, Howard, a sharp man several years older than Steven, with a good sense of humor. Steven actually liked him. Lannister’s young son, Steven could not say the same for. Though he was still young when they met, little lordling Anthony was as petulant as any royal child would be, and his father actively tried to quell that, to no avail. Steven knew he would be a problem in the future. 

When he was five and twenty, Lord Tully fought in his first campaign (not his first battle, mind you), alongside the King, whose son, Thor, Steven had made fast friends with. No one was exactly sure what the trouble was, only that Howard Lannister and the prince of Dorne, Pietro Martell (acting in the place of his lord father, Magnus), had joined forces against the fact that the Baratheon monarchy had taken the last Targaryen child to foster at King’s Landing after his mother, father, and two other brothers were killed by the dragon Jörmungandr in Valyria. It’s said that the dragon kept the land for himself, bathing in the Smoking Sea, and sleeping atop the mountains. 

At any rate, House Lannister and Martell, with the help of the Tyrells, and all the power of Highgarden behind them, united against what they felt was a foe in King’s Landing. It was, contrary to popular belief, a rather small uprising, though the battles were long and bloody, fought mostly in the miles between the Dornish Marches, and the Red Mountains. Steven commended the lords Lannister and Martell for forcing the battle to come to them, for having it fought on their own terms, in what Steven considered hellish conditions. The heat was suffocating, and the hills were more sand than they were rock, and it was a hard fought campaign, though eventually, Lannister, Martell, and Tyrell surrendered, to the mercy of their King. 

Howard, who was considered the ringleader of their ill-fated rebellion, was beheaded. It was unfortunate, to be sure, but Steven understood that for King Odin, it was a necessity. Martell and Tyrell would go mostly unpunished, save for the loss of a few young captives instead of the loss of their heads. Steven, along with his men from all across the Riverlands, made the journey home again, to the blessedly moist air of Riverrun. 

Things were quiet for a long time after that, and it was nice. Steven was settled in to his lordship, and quite thoroughly loved by his people who knew him as a good man, and an even better fighter, and he made a point of interacting with the people of Riverrun as much as he could, walking the streets of the village where he had been born as much as his time would allow. The forge where his father had once worked was up and running again and Steven made sure to visit often, commissioning certain things from the blacksmith, who was a young but rather talented man named Piotr. 

Almost four years after the battles in the Dornish mountains, Steven received word, one morning, that he had a visitor. He hadn’t remembered making any time to see any of his bannermen, or house guards or to hold audience for petitioners in the village, and he tried, as he made his way down to the Great Hall, to remember if he had summoned someone that he had forgotten. But he hadn’t, and nor had he expected to see the person waiting for him in the hall. 

James was standing against one of the limestone pillars toward the front of the hall, as casual as if he’d never left the castle at all. There was a giant wolf-like beast laying at his feet, grey and white and black and brown, an almost ugly thing, and most certainly fierce looking, though it was asleep. For a few moments, Steve looked from the beast, to James, and back and forth again. Once he had well and truly entered the hall, James looked up (and the thing at his feet opened his eyes), and a soft smile bent his lips, while the rest of his expression seemed to light up. 

Steven didn’t know what to do or say, simply coming to a stop several feel away from his friend, stilled and struck silent by disbelief. They stood that way for a few moments actually, James smiling, and Steven completely stunned. He’d thought the man dead. 

“Y - ... Lord Stark this is...” Steven began, unsure, before he raised his hands in an aborted gesture, and stepped forward. James pushed away from the pillar, his beast standing up as well. 

“No lord,” he said, shaking his head as he made his way over to Steven, until they were standing close. “That’s for my sister now, you can call her Lord Stark.”

“James...” Steven murmured, voice rough and close to breaking. His friend looked around the mostly empty hall for a few moments, biting his bottom lip, before his gaze returned to Lord Tully. 

“Perhaps we should talk somewhere a touch more private, mm?” He asked, reaching out to pat Steven’s arm. “This is Bones, by the way. He’s soft, really, not as mean as he is ugly. Most times, anyway.”

Steven hadn’t even seen the dog, his gaze solely focused on James.Just the fact that James was there, he was really there, a bit scarred and clearly road worn, his hair falling down to his shoulders, and there none the less, had Steven wholly overwhelmed. 

“Yes of - course, we can go to my.... my room.” 

And so they did, but the talking only came after they had kissed feverishly, and James had fucked Steven into his new, lordly bed. Only after that, and after they had dozed, did James explain everything. After his father’s death, he should have been proclaimed lord, as he had been also declared legitimate by the king, but he had been angry at his lord farther at the time, and felt no loyalty to the man, even after he was dead, so he turned the duty over to his younger sister. From there, he journeyed to the New Gift, searching for his mother’s people, whom he eventually found, and spent nearly two years with. Bones, a wolf, was a thing given to him by the wildlings during that time, and they’d become fast friends, or something like it. 

From there, James traveled North of the Wall, before sailing to Skagos, and on to Braavos after that, where he told Steven about the woman, Natalia, he met. She was a Braavosi sellsword, or so she told James, and she was the best fighter he had ever seen, without any doubt. After staying in Braavos for some time with her, which Steven didn’t know what to make of, they moved on to the Free Cities, mostly sailing where they wished, when they had the money to pay their way, and since Natalia had made most of her living as a sellsword, that was how they earned their keep. It was all surprising to hear, to Steven, but at the heart of it, he was simply happy that his friend was alive. 

“I’d thought you were dead. You didn’t write and no one had even heard a whisper for the longest time,” Steven had told him, eyes closed as he laid with his head resting on James’ chest, listening to the thudding of his heart. 

“Well, I’m very much alive,” James replied with a chuckle, his fingers carding gently through the other man’s hair, and Steven laughed softly as well. 

In the days after his return, James was knighted, pledging himself to not only Lord Steven, but to House Tully and Riverrun alike, along with Natalia, who Steven found to be the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. There was something intensely fierce about her beauty, a certain danger to it that seemed like it would be completely appealing not only James in particular, but many a man, and perhaps women as well. Though he wasn’t entirely sure what their relationship had been, Steven accepted Natalia into his life just as easily as he did James, and came to enjoy her company. She had a sharp tongue, and was smarter than both Steven and James, and could drink to boot, so for the few months when she first arrived, everyone in the castle marveled at her. Steven’s captain of the house guard, a Summer Islander named Sam, found her especially amusing from time to time, especially at dinner with some of the men, and the way she would respond to their taunts. 

From then, Steven was incredibly happy, or at least as happy as had been since James’ departure, for now he felt that things were right once more. The only concerns he had were matters of his people, and occasionally a matter of the realm, though those were few and far between. A slightly less concerning matter that seemed constantly in conversation was the fact that Steven was not yet married, a fact that, at his age, was incredibly strange to those around him save for James of course, who understood the reason why. Steven knew well that at some point he would have to marry some lord’s daughter, though the thought was often not at the forefront of important matters, and usually, he forgot it entirely in favor of more pressing things at hand. 

The journey James and Natalia had just returned from was a rather long one, as they had to make stops at the largest castles in the North, Winterfell and the Dreadfort, then travel even further to the New Gift, to treat with James’ wildling family, who loved him well, and all to marshal a strength of men. In the South, the new Lord of Lannister was gathering his own men as well, following in the footsteps of his father to rebel against the King and his Targaryen foster. The beheading of the late Howard Lannister no doubt left a nasty taste in young lord Anthony’s mouth, but in Steven’s mind, he was a rather nasty boy. To hear it said, the boy was already fond of drink at nine and ten, and wrathful to those who failed to agree with him and his ideas, though Steven did not know him save for word of mouth. That was enough for him, however, for he had never been irrational young men who wielded their power with abandon. 

The fact that he may be leading not only the Northmen, but those of the Riverlands as well to war weighed heavily on Steven’s mind, as the fact that he was responsible for the lives of the men who followed him was an intense one, for him. Having James around made things easier, gave him someone to talk with about his fears, his doubts, his insecurities, someone to tell the things he couldn’t tell his captains or other lords. 

It was the possibility of another grueling war that was on Steven’s mind as he leaned against the windowsill of his rooms in the Lord’s Tower, looking east as sweat cooled on his chest and back. The sleet had all but melted into rain the the last handful of hours as the weather warmed, and the damp scent of rain filled the room as well as the cool air that drifted in with it. All of it, the sound of the rain, the low, grey mist that settled across most of Riverrun and the rivers and fields surrounding it, served to relax Steven slightly, even if his thoughts threatened to undo it all. 

From behind him, James shifted under the furs of Steven’s bed, sighing deeply. “Close the window,” he mumbled from beneath the coverlets, and Steven turned to look at him, smiling when he saw that all that was showing of his friend was the upper half of his face. “And come back to bed. I’ve had enough cold rain for one day.” 

Laughing, Steven closed the window’s shutters and turned to make his way back to the bed. “A Northman tired of the cold?” He chuckled, lifting the furs to slide in next to his friend, just as naked as he had been when he left the bed. James jumped and shifted a bit when their skin touched, for Steven’s was still a little too cool. 

“No, I’m simply a man, tired _and_ cold,” he sighed, moving into Steven’s arms, burying his face in the crook of the lord’s neck. James was sleep warm and pliant, and Steven had to smile as he slipped his arms around his friend’s shoulders, pushing a leg between his until they were tangled up again. 

“Well are you cold still?” Steven asked, the words spoken into James’s hair. 

“Mmm, not quite. You’ve grown a bit chilly while you were thinking, so you cooled me off,” James murmured. “Not sure why you felt the need to do your thinking out there though.” He curls a warm, work-roughened hand against Steven’s pine. 

“The cool cleared my head a little,” he said, inhaling deeply as he rolled them both, till James was laying on his back, and Steven pressed him into the bed, one hand smoothing over James’s shoulder. 

“You can do your thinking here, you know, when I’m asleep,” he answered with a faint smirk, and a deep sigh. Steven chuckled and looked down at the pale, scarred skin of James’s chest, at the line the sun and his armor had left around his neck. He ran a palm down over what looked like the remnants of a sword slash across James’s right pectoral, then ducked his head to press a kiss to the skin just above the sharp, pink scar. 

“Because there’s little else I can think about when I have you in my bed.” Steven glanced up at James, and gave him a small smile. 

“Do you tell all your boys that?” James said, grinning in return, and reaching a hand out to run his fingers through Steven’s hair, who simply laughed, before he dipped his head again to press another kiss to James’s chest, a bit lower than the last. 

“See, you’ve already got me off on the wrong path.” Steven feigned seriousness, and wriggled a little, allowing himself to slip a bit lower over James’s body, and touch his lips to another scar just under the other man’s nipple. With the furs pulled back, James was exposed to the slightly cool air, and gooseflesh was starting to pebble his skin, made his nipples peak, and it was a rather lovely sight. 

“Well, then, I’m sorry m’lord,” James teased, licking his bottom lip as his eyes darted down to where Steven’s lips hovered above his skin. “Perhaps thinking out loud would help. Tell them true, and maybe I’ll even give you a little advice.” He winked at his friend. 

With a sigh, Steven fixed his eyes on a small, brown spot on James’ sternum, a tiny mark he’d had since birth. Part of him didn’t want to talk about the coming campaign at all, in favor of simply savoring his time with the friend he’d missed so badly, but it would have to happen sometime. He rested his chin on James’ stomach, and looked up at him, blinking slowly as his hands moved restlessly over the other man’s sides. 

“The Lannister boy,” Steven said, and his explanation was met with a scoff, a roll of eyes from James. 

“The Lannister _whelp_. I changed my mind, I don’t want to hear what you’re thinking about.” He shook his head on the pillow, letting out yet another sigh and focused on the ceiling above them. 

“I’ve only ever met him once, and yet I know this is all going to turn out to be much more than it needs to be. His father was a decent man, for all that he’d been a traitor, but his son isn’t so wise, or so I hear it,” Steven explains further, tipping his head down to lay a kiss on the spot on James’ belly, where he’s soft. 

“He isn’t. There’s all this talk for a reason, Steven. The boy is an idiot, a drunken lout, and now he’s trying to play at war because he doesn’t know the cost. You have enough force behind you that he’ll be cowed into turning tail to run back to his rock, and stay there. I’d be surprised if there was a battle,” James said, sounding very suddenly angry, in a way, but Steven just smiled a little. 

“How would you know all that? I’ve only ever met the boy once when he was young, and I was going to fight against his father. Even then he was a brat, but what lordling isn’t? Surely he would have grown out of all that.” Steven fancied himself an optimist; he believed there was something redeemable in every man or woman, save for maybe a select few. 

“When Natalia and I finally sailed back to Westeros, we sailed with a trading galley that made berth in Lannisport. Word travels fast in the ports, lots of gossip to be heard in the taverns when talking with sailors and such. They told me all about the last war as well, how hideous it was,” James replied, running a thumb along a thin white scar over Steven’s cheekbone. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” 

“Not at all,” the older man said with a soft smile. “But I don’t know that I’d trust sailors talk alone.” 

For a few silent moments, James looked at his friend fondly, stroking his hand over the side of Steven’s face. “You always want to see the very best in men, don’t you sweetling?” He said with a chuckle. 

“I don’t want to go to war, and see this boy die because he doesn’t know any better. I don’t want my men, your sister’s men, and countless others die because he doesn’t know any better.” Any smile that had bent his lips had faded with that statement, and James’ did as well. It was a moment before he spoke again. 

“We will do what we have to, and so will the King. The whole realm is against this boy, and with the power  against him, it would mean death for him and his men, and not to mention his line. He has no heir, and if he thinks he’s going to die a glorious death for some ridiculous cause, then let him think that, but it will destroy anything House Lannister has left,” James said solemnly his hand stilling in Steven’s sandy hair. 

With a sigh, the lord nodded, glancing down at his friend’s stomach, and running his fingers over the silky skin. “I worry about Dorne as well. I presumed they’d learned their lesson, and they haven’t ever been any friend to the Lannisters, but after the last time I’m unsure. It isn’t their forces, so much as their terrain that worries me...” His voice drifted off for a moment as he thought of the deserts heat, and how many men they’d lost from dehydration and the heat alone, not to mention the battles themselves. 

“You know better than that now, Lord Tully,” James began, stern. “You know not to play this game by their terms, you play it by yours. We’ll crush this boy, show him exactly what hubris can do to a man, though I know you aren’t so violent and wrathful as some of the men following you will be.” 

“If needs must, I will be,” Steven replied in much the same tone as his friend. James smiled a bit, thumbing over Steven’s temple, before sighing deeply. 

“I suppose that means I should have my armor repaired, sword sharpened and all that,” he said, the tension that had built from the last few exchanges slowly dissolving again. Humming, Steven bowed his head once more, and placed another kiss on James’ stomach, a few inches above his navel. 

“Suppose you will. Those things are useful in battle.” He grinned against his friend’s skin. 

“Feeling cheeky, now, are you m’lord?” James teased in return, watching the other man intently. 

“I’m simply responding to your... musing, ser,” Steven responded, lips moving over James’ skin as he spoke, and moved ever lower. 

“Indeed,” the knight said with a smile, before threading his fingers through Steven’s hair, and closing his eyes to relish the feeling of his friend’s mouth as it kissed, and even nipped at the tender skin of his stomach. 

They fell silent then, the only sound in the room being their breathing as it came in harder and harder, and the soft crackle of the fire. James was feeling less and less cold by the second as he felt himself stiffen under his friend’s attentions. When Steven finally took James’ half-hard cock in his mouth, the knight sighed and let his eyes fall shut, reaching a hand down to brush through Steven’s hair. 

“Seven save me, I’ve been too long without this,” he sighed, a small shiver of pleasure racking him when Steven tongued the head of his cock. “I think I should... relieve Sam of his post as head of the - ah - house hold guard, I’d make a better job of it.” 

Steven withdrew to look up at James, lips spit-slick and shiny. “And what will Sam have to do? Would you put one of my best men out of his duty?” 

“For this, yes. For you I’d put any man out of his duty, or misery, or what have you, but I’d do what I have to so I could be here,” James said quickly in one breath, eyes open now to return his friend’s gaze. 

“Always knew you were a romantic,” Steven murmured in return, before turning back to the task at hand. 

 

They pass the rest of the night like that, taking, giving, and talking about things to come in between. Some time, after the sun has gone down behind the clouds and Riverrun is left in the dark, they leave the warm comfort of Steven’s bed to once again pick over the feast that his lordship had ordered be warmed again, despite the late hour. There was more wine of course, and the two men ate at the table in Steven’s solar, wrapped half in furs and half in silk bedclothes, laughing and talking as they did so. 

It was as good a night as they’d ever had, in Steven’s mind, and when they returned to his bed again, he wasn’t particularly keen on wasting the time they had together on sleep. Exhausted as he claimed to be, and as much as he insisted he wouldn’t be tempted by Steven’s advances--but they both knew better than that, so they continued the night as they had before, fucking and dozing and talking and drinking wine into the late hours of the morning. They fell asleep, well and truly exhausted, before the sun vaulted the horizon, and Steven thought to himself, as he drifted off, that he’d missed this familiar form in his bed, this heartbeat under his ear. 

 

The following few days were busy for Lord Tully, as he met with his captains, and word from Lord Piper and Smallwood arrived, informing their liege lord that they would be arriving a few days hence. Each time he was informed another lord was bringing his men to fight, Steven was reassured that this battle would turn in their favor, or as James had put it to him that first night, perhaps the Lannister boy would be cowed by the force that turned out against him, and retreat back to Casterly Rock. What frightened Steven, however, was the silence from both Dorne and High Garden, who were as of yet silent. James reassured him that his fears were unfounded. At least for the time being. 

Almost four days after James and Natalia arrived at Riverrun, the forces from the North were spotted just east of the Tumblestone, Stark banners flying at the head of the column. Steven formed up a party comprised of himself, James, Sam, and another boy, Eli, who was in the house hold guard and rather fond of James, to go out and meet the forces that would soon be assembled outside the walls of his castle. When they were within a reasonable distance of the column, James shouted over the light mist to Steven. 

“My lord sister is there, leading the column,” he pointed out, and sure enough when Steven squinted, he could see the woman’s form atop her white mount, even through the misty rain. 

“My Lord Stark! We weren’t expecting you!” Steven shouted, smiling as the two parties rode close, and cantered to a stop not feet from each others. Some horses snorted and tossed their heads, hooves stamping the damp ground beneath them. 

“Then my brother forgot something, surely,” Lord Rebecca said, grinning brightly at her brother. They looked vaguely alike, through the eyes and in the hair, Steven thought, and Rebecca had the hard beauty of the North, her eyes a light blue grey, skin somewhat pale, and her hair an ashy brown. It was haloed now in the slight rain, and windblown, but she was still lovely, in Steven’s mind. Much like her brother. 

“I don’t forget much. Surely, you forgot to tell me,” James added, smirking and folding his hands over the horn of his saddle. Rebecca simply laughed. 

“Simply here to see my men safe to your care, Lord Tully. As Warden of the North, I felt it my duty,” she said as explanation, inclining her head toward Steven. 

“Well you are most welcome, my lord, for however long you intend to stay. Ride with me, and we can discuss what exactly I’ve dragged you down here for,” Steven told her with a smile, pulling around his blood bay charger, one he hadn’t ridden in quite a long time, and one, James thought, he rode for show today. 

“I think I know well enough, from what my brother has told me, though I’m sure you can fill in the details.” She spurred her horse on ahead of her guard, and joined Steven as they wheeled about and began to trot in the direction of the castle once more. 

 

Upon their return to Riverrun, Steven had Rebecca up to his solar so she could warm herself by the fire and have a meal, though they did talk for a while as well. James stayed outside the walls of Riverrun, and across Tumblestone, riding through the camps the Northmen were pitching, with Sam and a few of the other men that had ridden out with them. By the time the sun was setting, he was riding into the lower bailey of the castle, chafed and soaked to the bone, and for as much as he should have been used to the rain in the Riverlands, he still hated it. 

He passed Natalia in the yard as she traded blows with one of the green boys of the castle, a squire perhaps, though truly it could have been a seasoned knight and she still would have beaten him just as badly. As he was passing, James shouted to her, telling her not to kill the boy, to which she just twisted her mouth, and arched one fine red brow. 

As he had been doing the past few nights, he ascended into the castle and to the Lord’s Tower, where his sister and Steven were finishing their meal and chatting idly, a fire crackling in the hearth, as usual. James went to warm himself there, toeing out of his boots. 

“Have I missed anything?” He asked, though he wasn’t particularly sure he was interested. Steven smiled over at him fondly, a cup of wine in one hand. 

“The Frey men have not yet come, and I don’t suppose they will any longer,” Lord Tully says, sounding weary. James sighed and stands straight, and though he wants to go to his friend, place hands on his shoulders and lean into his space, James knew doing as much in front of his sister would be foolish. The closeness of their friendship, as it were, wasn’t a very tightly kept secret, but both he and Steven never spoke of it directly to anyone, though many assumed quite a lot, and rumors spread like fleas in the Seven Kingdoms. He of all people knew as much. 

“Cowards. Though are either of you surprised?” James asked, smiling a bit as he rubbed his hands together to warm them. Rebecca and Steven exchanged a look. 

“Well I can’t say I am, but I won’t speak for you,” she said, inclining her head toward Lord Tully. He nodded in agreement, frowning, and inhaled deeply. 

“I thought I had a decent, if not unsteady, friendship with Lord Frey,” he murmured as if he were speaking only to himself, and his gaze fixed on some spot on the table. 

“Don’t trouble yourself with it,” James replied, waving a hand as he stood straight, and padded over to take a seat at the table, swinging his bare feet up onto it. “Scott is a terrible coward and unless it benefits him, he won’t lift a finger. I saw it even when I paid his hall a visit, he was never going to come. It’s Frey blood.” 

 

The next several days were much of the same; Steven and James spent their days meeting with the Lords of the North who had come with their men, most notably Lord Logan Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, and an old friend of both Steven and James. They spent a night drinking with Bolton, though come morning, the three of them found themselves with pounding heads as they sat at council with commanders, lords, and captains from the Riverlands and North alike. Among them were Rebecca and Lord Bolton, and the two other Northron Lords, Namor Manderly, and Piotr Dustin. From the Riverlands came Lord Carol Piper, and Thomas Smallwood from Pinkmaiden and Acorn Hall respectively, both of whom Steven was close with. All assembled, they presented a formidable force, and that was something they all agreed on wholeheartedly, though if it would be enough to dissuade Lannister and his men no one could say. 

Also present were two Dothraki which Lord Bolton had brought with him, Drax and Gamora, and many heads of household guards that the lords brought with them to the war council. It was long, and tense at times, but Steven felt it was a success, that they were all of an understanding when it came to their goal, and when it was time for everyone to leave to their separate encampments, Steven was glad for it. He stayed behind to speak with Lord Piper and Smallwood, as they were good friends of his and he hadn’t had the opportunity to speak with them of all the goings on in more detail. In that time, James, apparently, had left, for when Steven made to leave the room, he found his friend absent. There were only so many places James would go, alone, in the castle, and Steven knew just where to look. 

The godswood of Riverrun was a lovely place, full of light and towering redwoods trees, and though Steven didn’t visit it often, it gave him a certain sense of security, of being surrounded and safe. An old weirwood stood at the center of it all, white and red against the green and brown of the rest of the wood, and Steven was glad it was still there, unlike many weirwoods in the south. He entered the godswood quietly, listening to all the quiet sounds of the wood, his boots pressing into the moss as he moved between the thick trunks of the trees and kept an eye out for James. 

He was, of course, at the center of the godswood, perched on a rock near the towering, gnarled weirwood with its red sap face like blood, and crimson leaves that shivered every once in a while, though the air in the wood was mostly still. Steven smiled at seeing the placid look on his friend’s face, his hands folded under his chin and his elbows propped on his knees as he gazed up at the weirwood. For a moment, the lord paused, looking at the tree himself, before he approached James, and sat down by his feet. 

“What are you praying for?” He asked with a sigh, leaning back against the damp rock. James hummed. 

“What most men pray for before they go to fight, lives to be spared, for victory and the like. That Natalia was feeling charitable and patched my ring mail along with her own,” the knight said with a smile, glancing down at Steven. 

“Mm. I can’t help you with the former, but I did have your armor sent to the smith. All of it, with mine as well just in case,” Steven replied, before tilting his head back so he could see the other man. James grins and slides down till he’s sitting on the moist earth as well, shifting so their thighs touch. 

“Well thank you, my lord. I suppose I owe you for that, don’t I?” He said, raising an eyebrow, and watching as Steven smiled. 

“Not at all, it was my pleasure. I want it strong for you,” he replied with a chuckle, which had James smiling as well. 

“Even so,” James said, his voice a bit softer, expression falling. 

For a handful of moments after that, they fell silent, listening to the branches of the trees creaking gently hundreds of feet above them, and the sound of their breathing as they sat next to one another. Steven felt, sensed rather, that James’ being here was a bit out of the ordinary for him, and usually they came together just to be alone. Moving his hand from between them, the lord reached out to take his friend’s hand, sliding their roughened palms together. 

“If something’s the matter, you know there’s no shame in telling me,” he murmured, knowing that sometimes the things James did in Essos, the things he did in the time he had spent as a young, naive sellsword still came back to him in dreams, both sleeping and waking. 

James blinked a few times, his stormy-sea eyes fixed on the weirwood before them. “No, of course,” he said, though it sounded perfunctory. “No I’m... quite alright, I think. Though my thinking is most likely the problem.” The lightness that was in his voice previously was gone. 

“Tell me,” Steven answered, bumping James’ elbow. Again the knight is silent for what feels like a long time before he shifts, pulling one leg up close to his body. 

“When I was twenty and Natalia and I rode with the Golden Company, I had my horse cut out from under me during a charge,” James started, and Steven noted that he was somewhere else, his eyes unfocused. “She screamed as she went, and I fell forward over her, but she broke her neck, and it was such a strange feeling. I didn’t ride into a right on a horse again, if I could absolutely help it, and I never did, so I wonder if I’ll have to in a few days time.” 

Steven absorbed that, thought back to the war in the Dornish Marches, and how many horses they’d lost, either cut down in battle or out of the need for food. There was nothing green in the desert, hardly anything living, and in the mountains their stores ran out too quickly. 

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” Steven supplied softly, watching James’ face. “You can ride behind me if you like.” He gave Steven a half smile, turning his head to look at the blond for a little while. 

“Thank you,” he murmured, releasing the lord’s hand so he could move his to Steven’s chin, and lean down to kiss him. 

They make love when they return to the Lord’s Tower that night, they take their time and smile and laugh and bite at each other’s lips, before they fall asleep, tangled together. 

 

To everyone’s surprise, it isn’t raining the next day. 

There are nearly two thousand of them, with the men Steven has managed to muster added to the force of the Northmen, and the train of them stretched back nearly two miles as they began their journey south through the hilly country of the Riverlands. The war council Steven had held days before decided it was best to keep off the Kingsroad, and not to mention faster, as the King and his men would already be on the march west. It was expected the two forces would meet somewhere southwest of Harrenhal, near the Blackwater Rush. They rode out before the sun rose, Steven at the head of the column with James on his right, and Natalia next to him, then all the lords of the North that had come to see their men to the battle. 

It had been a long time since Steve had worn his armor, iron plate that had been worked in with blue so it shimmered from silver to Tully cobalt in the light. He felt its weight as he rode, swaying in the saddle of his destrier, a great black beast with a tied mane that carried his head high as if he knew he were riding to meet the king. Next to him, James hadn’t bothered with much of the ceremony and had foregone wearing his armor, instead simply wearing mail and a leather doublet, and one pauldron from his full suit of armor. It was a wolf’s head of pounded and polished iron, with huge pearls for eyes, and an open mouth that bore a fierce snarl full of sharp canines. James did look a sight in his full armor, with Bones loping along beside or in front of him, and no doubt he would be a sight to the enemy when they rode to the fight. 

Next to him, Natalia ripples black and red, black and red where the sun reflects against her armor, and Steven is relieved to have them both beside him, to have them riding into this with him. Among the other men of his is Sam, and his falcon circling overhead of the column, and some of the younger boys in the household guard. It takes them all two days to reach High Heart where they make camp for the night, and though normally James spent his nights at Steven’s side, that one was different. When asked, Natalia had shrugged and told Lord Tully that the knight had murmured something about the Ghost of High Heart, and gone off with Bones and a flagon of wine. 

 

_(“Keep that ill-named beast away from me, boy, and hand over the wine and a kiss, so I can tell you it may be the last of many you have.”)_

 

 

 

It took a fortnight and five days to reach the Blackwater Rush, where the King’s forces had been waiting for them for several days. Once all the men had been settled in their camps, Steven went to the King’s camp with James, Natalia, and the Northron lords to meet the man they were sworn to defend. King Odin Baratheon was well on with the years, but tough as any young man, even missing one eye. His son, Thor, was a lively man of Steven’s age, full of smiles and all too willing to drink with his friends, as they did over a meal in the King’s tent the night the forces of the North and South met. It seemed more a celebration of sorts than a group of men going off to battle, but then again, James supposed, why not celebrate with drink and food and the like before a fight. 

So he didn’t question it, and drank and ate like there was no tomorrow, for the Baratheon prince was a rather rowdy young man, and if he was honest, good fun. Steven spent most of his time speaking with the King, or with the Lords, so James sat with Natalia and Sam and Thor, along with his younger brother, Baldur. 

The night ended rather early for James, as the wine was making him sleepier than anything else, and he had to go track down Bones before he tore the leg off some poor hunting dog from this man or that. As he was leaving, the feast was still in full swing--Natalia and Baldur were locked together, arm wrestling as the latter’s drunken brother cheered them on, Lord Bolton was speaking to one of the serving girls, and Steven was still speaking with the King. That much gave James pause just to smile, before he pushed out  of the tent, and into the chill air. 

It was refreshing for a few moments, but James knew that soon the breeze would turn bitter, and snow wouldn’t be far behind--that much, he could smell in the air. As he made his way through the camp, he pulled his cloak tight around him to stop from catching a chill, the fur around the collar tickling his cheeks when the breeze whipped through it. The camps were as quiet as any soldier’s camp was, with the men talking and singing and drinking and eating around their cook fires. James passed among them, whistling every once in a while to call Bones, wherever he might be, and eventually he found himself back in the Northmen’s camp, at Steven’s tent. 

He glanced around at the smaller tents surrounding the Lord’s, before pushing a flap aside to enter. Inside it was warmer, a fire already started in a brazier, so James unclasped his cloak, and flung it over one of the chairs set up at a table, taking liberties that he was too used to, in his mind. No doubt many people thought he over stepped his bounds when it came to Lord Tully, and his own place as a knight, such as tossing his cloak here or there, and presuming to make the Lord’s tent his own as well, though fewer people knew about the latter. But he’d made his life around not paying attention to the things people said about him _\--bastard, savage, wildling, degenerate--_ so anymore, no petty court rumors hurt him now. 

There’s a flagon of water sitting on the table, along with a few glasses, and James took one to pour himself some water. Just as he was sitting down, the tent flap snapped back, as if caught by a breeze, and Bones loped inside ahead of Natalia. She must have followed after him once she was finished with Baldur. 

“You weren’t enjoying yourself?” James asked, bringing the cup of water to his lips, and drinking deep of the cool water. Natalia inhaled deeply and shrugged, unclasping her cloak from her shoulders. Without it, she took shape against the night, and James thought that she must have looked an apparition to those who could catch a glimpse of her slinking between the cook fires. 

“Well you weren’t, so I thought I’d come and see why,” she said, walking toward the table as Bones shook himself out a bit, then hopped onto the bed that had been set up for Steven. The wolf curled up, tucking his nose under his tail. 

“Mmm,” James hummed, looking over at the animal on Steven’s bed. The tent is quiet for a while, Natalia making her way toward the table to sit next to James and pour herself a cup of water as well. 

“So?” She prompted after a while, and began to untie her intricate red braid. 

“So I think... the Baratheons have good reason to be so relaxed about this, I suppose. Their forces equal or out weight the Lannisters’, and the chance of their victory is more than likely, but I don’t like it,” James explained, then fell silent as he took another sip of the water. 

“You don’t think we should be here?” Natalia asked, raising her eyebrows at him as she shook out her hair, waves of it falling over her still-armored shoulders. Inhaling deeply and frowning at the table before him, James shakes his head. 

“I think Anthony Lannister is a traitor and a drunkard and young on top of all of that, and I think he needs to be put in his place,” he said, voice monotone. “I think the King can make his own decisions about the Targaryen boy, no matter how it turns out for him.” James thinks back to the feast where he’d seen Loki Targaryen siting next to the King, silent and still, watching the crowd around him as he sipped at his cup of wine. He was strange, a sorcerer some say, but James knew nothing more than a few whispers people said about him, and no doubt, the boy liked it that way. 

“But you don’t think we should be here,” Natalia said again with a smile, beginning to unbuckle her pauldrons. 

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” James gave in retort, looking over at his friend. “I’d follow Steven to the Smoking Sea and to Valyria, to the dragon’s islands, or to the Grass Sea if I had to. I’m here for him.” 

“Of course you are.” Natalia settled in her chair, and sipped at her water. “But battle is battle and men die. _Valar Morghulis.”_

James huffed a laugh, and gave a humorless, half smile. “ _Valar dohaeris.”_

 

They sat and talked for a while, not too long, before the tent flap opened again, and Steven pushed inside. Where the tent had been warm, a burst of the chilly night air entered with Steven and was soon gone as the lord looked at the two sitting at his table, then to Bones on his bed. 

“You left early,” he said to the both of them, his smile almost breathless as he paces over to the table, his cloak sweeping over the rushes that had been laid out on the floor. James sighed a little and glanced to Natalia, before looking to Steven again. 

“I can’t say I was in the mood to drink, given the chance that we may have Lannisters on our tail on the morrow,” James said with a small smile, reaching forward to fill his glass a new. Steven outstretched a hand for a cup as well. 

“I can’t say I blame you,” Steven chuckled. “And you Natalia, you looked like you were enjoying the... feast.” 

“Indeed, but I’ll second James’ answer--feasting before meeting any enemy isn’t my favorite thing to do. I stopped while I was ahead,” she explained, smiling tucking her hair behind her ears before she pushed herself up from her seat, gathering up her shed armor from the table. 

“I agree. How they do it, I cannot begin to fathom. They seemed to be just getting started, I think,” Steven laughed, taking a sip of water.

“Baratheons should be known for their appetite, not their fury,” Natalia added, and paced around the end of the table toward the tent flap. “I’ll see you boys in the morning. Try and get some sleep,” she added with a knowing smile, and James nodded at her, while Steven bid her do the same. 

After a brief silence, Steven looked to his knight again, a knowing expression in his eyes. 

“What?” James asked, standing. 

“Are you upset with me? About the Baratheons, or something?” Steven replied, his pale brows knitting. Laughing softly, James stepped forward toward his friend and outstretched a hand to take Steven’s cup, setting it on the table. 

“No, not at all. I just had no stomach for it tonight,” he murmured, reaching to undo the clasp of his lord’s cloak, two little trouts worked in silver and pearl. “I’m perfectly alright.” Once he pulled the thick blue cloth away, his hands moved to the buckles of Steven’s pauldrons that crossed his chest. 

“You’re lying,” the lord said, voice low, and a smile curving the edges of his lips. James paused, eyes moving to Steven’s face. 

“About what? The first or the second?” He asked, eyebrows raised. Steven narrowed his eyes for a moment. 

“The second,” he replied, as James’ hands began moving again to divest him of his armor. Its blue shone warmly in the light of the fire and the candles, the colors rippling from one to the next. 

“The second,” James echoed with a sigh, eyes on the breastplate that bore a star, carved into the steel of Steven’s breastplate. “You needn’t worry yourself with the second. I’ll be fine.” 

“Don’t do that,” Steven said, firm. “You know it’s no use trying to hide, just tell me what’s troubling you.” 

James laughed, because it was almost as if his friend were scolding a child. “We can talk when we’re both a bit more comfortable. I’d like to lay down, and I won’t be doing it in my armor,” he said quietly. 

Piece by piece, he stripped Steven of his armor, setting it all aside carefully, before moving to the clothes he wore under it, to leave him in his underclothes. James began to undress himself then as well, while Steven shooed Bones off of his bed, and pulled back the thick layers of furs before he climbs in. Moments later, James joined him, setting a cup of water on the bedside trestle, then sliding in to the warmth of the featherbed and furs. It all made him very suddenly tired, after travel, and the weight of the Ghost of High Heart’s words weighing on him. 

They curled together as they usually did, legs tangled and their joined hands resting on Steven’s chest. James rested his lips against the scarred skin of the lord’s shoulder, and looked up at him, silent. 

“Will you tell me now?” Steven murmured, unwilling to disturb the quiet of the room. James sighed, glancing down to their hands, and it hurt, how precious this all was to him. There was nothing he wasn’t willing to do to keep Steven, though he hadn’t had many opportunities to test that, but he knew that when it came to it, he would kill for this. He would kill to keep Steven alive, safe, and his. 

“If you could know that this battle would be your last, if someone could tell you, would you have it? Would you hear it said, and fight still?” He asked, voice too soft, for he was afraid it might break. For what felt like a long time, Steven watched his face, a small frown gradually rumpling his features. 

“I wouldn’t want to know it. I... no. It’s tempting I’m sure, but I couldn’t know. I’d like to think I would still fight, though my first inclination would be to find the quickest passage for us to Braavos, and not look back. But that seems too easy,” Steven replied, and his lips twitched with a small smile, but it quickly faded as he looked on at James. Another silence passed. “Why?” Though he feared the answer, it had to be asked. 

“Would you feel like drinking and feasting and the like?” James asked, his expression somehow softer after noting the concern on the lord’s face. Steven’s mouth falls open. 

“No. What are you saying? Is that why you left - but how can y - how can you know such a thing? And how do you know it’s the truth? Tell me what I assume you’re speaking of is wrong.” His words had taken on a breathless quality as he searched James’ face for an answer, hands unknowingly gripping at the knight’s arms, wherever Steven could reach. 

“The Ghost of High Heart,” James said as reply, smiling a little. “It’s alright,” he murmured, nudging Steven’s chin with his knuckles. “I asked a question and had it answered, was all. And anyway, your Southron magic doesn’t hold any sway on my people, or what that old crone considers magic.” 

Steven scoffs, a slightly desperate sound, and he smiles softly even if he’s not convinced. The Ghost of High Heart had always been just a tale to him, but not one he disbelieved. “You were raised in the Riverlands same as I,” he breathed, desperate to make sense of the things his friend was saying. 

“However true that may be, I still have the blood of Northmen in me.” James ran a thumb over Steven’s cheekbone, then circled the shell of his ear with roughened fingertips. 

“That’s not something easily forgotten. You’re wildling to the bone,” Steven laughed again before moving in to press his lips to James’s. It’s a thing he could not help but do, and James felt the same. 

Whatever much bravado he put on, it was for Steven’s sake. The Ghost of High Heart was rumored to be a remnant of the age of the Children of the Forest, before the First Men, and the wildlings knew that well. The Children’s magic was something even the wildlings held in high regard, but James wouldn’t say as much. 

“Indeed. Words, merely, that I couldn’t get out of my mind enough to enjoy the festivities, is all,” James said when they parted, and he watched Steven’s brows draw up in the middle, concerned. 

“You’re sure? This doesn’t sit easily with me, you know. I don’t know how you expect me to sleep after that,” he said with a chuckle, though it was tight, humorless. 

“I know, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to worry you, truly - “ 

“Well I asked.” 

“Even still.” 

Steven sighed heavily, placing a wide hand against James’ cheek. “You trust me with your safety, do you not?” With a smile, James raised his own hand to encircle Steven’s, lightly holding him there. 

“Of course I do. Of _course_ I do. It isn’t for a lack of trust, my dear, I promise. In fact if it were anyone else, I wouldn’t be here.” He kissed the inside of Steven’s wrist. 

The lord chuckled softly, though he was thoroughly ill at ease, which James knew, could feel very easily. 

“Get some rest, my lord. I’ll be alright.” 

 

And rest they did, for a few hours in any case. Just before dawn, voices outside the Lord’s tent woke both James and Steven, though moments later Natalia pushed inside, sounding breathless when she told them both that the Lannister host had been spotted on the Gold Road. Both men moved quickly to don their armor, and called for bread and water to fill their stomachs at least a little before they left. Outside, the air was cool and the sky was a light grey, though nothing fell, and Steven was grateful for it; war was gruesome enough without the rain or snow or heat making everything worse. Both his blood bay charger, and James’ black courser had been saddled and brought up to the lord’s tent, and when the two men emerged, none mentioned it, simply mounted their horses with them, and rode out of camp. 

They joined the King’s forces near the Blackwater, and from there rode West on the Gold Road, eyes keen for their enemy on the horizon. Steven rides a few rows back from the front, with James and Sam flanking him on either side, and they talk as they ride, Sam’s falcon circling the skies overhead, while Bones was loping along ahead of the force of men behind him. Nearly a two miles into the trek, Bones stopped on a low bluff, head held high and his ears two sharp, attentive points silhouetted against the morning sun, and James reigned up his horse. 

“Your Grace,” he shouted, and the King slowly pulled his horse to a halt as well, waiting, as the rest of them were. After a few agonizing moments, Bones turned back and began to run toward the host, though he wasn’t running _from_ what he had seen. Some of the horses in the front line shied from the wolf, not at all used to his imposing presence, but he slowed to a trot just as, over the horizon behind him, the tips of crimson banners slowly teetered into view. 

Steven drew in a breath, unsure if this would be battle from the first, or if the King would at very least try and speak with the Lannister boy one more time. After what James had told him the night previous, he felt skittish, and as if he would do anything to stay by the knight’s side, or even to stop this battle from happening. Anxiety curled and writhed in his gut as the Lannister host drew closer, banners flapping and the hoof beats of their horses a dull drum in the air, and just as he inhaled and exhaled deeply, James slapped his shoulder with an armored hand. 

He said nothing, just gave Steven a gentle, long look that meant it would be alright, a reassurance that he had James by his side. Steven gave him a nod in return, and turned his attention back to the field. The Lannister line had stopped, as theirs had, save for three riders at the front who were advancing toward their opposition. Steven glanced then to the King, who put his heels into his horse, his son and captain of the household guard following his lead, and the three of them began to ride toward the center of the field. 

It was all very tense for a while, the two parties having an exchange that neither side could hear, but eventually the King and the two who had accompanied him wheeled their horses around and galloped back. Steven looked to James, who returned his glance and shrugged, then the two turned back to watch the King and the Lannister lord ride back to their lines. 

“Tomorrow!” the King bellowed, and a sigh Steven looked at the men around him. 

“Seven hells,” James muttered, “you lords and your politics.” 

Sam pulled at the reigns of his horse, chuckling at the other night. “Fight them now then, if you would. I’ll be back at camp, ser,” He laughed, glancing over at Steven as well. The lord laughed and nodded to his friend. 

“Bones would be glad to help you, I imagine,” he said, looking afield for the wolf, and James just snorted as the host began to turn back down the Gold Road. 

 

It was a tense night, to be sure, but gave every one time enough to calm themselves and prepare, as much as any person could prepare for war. Come morning, the forces formed up just as they had the day before, though each lord and their countrymen separated into several phalanxes, before marching out of the camp. James rode with the Northmen, beside Lord Bolton, though their column was right alongside that of the men from the Riverlands, where Natalia rode next to Steven. As usual, Bones trotted along side of some of the Northmen that didn’t have mounts, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he glanced around at the horses and men who looked warily back at him. 

By the time they had reached the field, the sun was high in the sky, but a chill wind cut any warmth it might have lent. Across the grass, again at a few leagues, the Lannister host stood waiting, and there wasn’t much more to it. 

Battle is, for all that it is hundreds of men fighting one another, a very solitary thing. It’s each man, or woman, fighting for their own life against hundreds of men doing the exact same, one at a time killing and maiming one at a time before the whole thing is over. It’s never an easy thing either; never quick and painless, not wars like these. This wasn’t the bloodiest battle Steven had ever seen, though he knew that it would be the first of many, where the Lannister and his allies were concerned, and while they had mostly beaten back the forces from the North and East, it was still a close thing. 

When all was said and done, dust and flies clouded the cool air, and Steven leaned back against a rock with James, Sam, and Natalia, passing around a skin of water and catching their breath as they looked around at the battlefield. Silent Sisters picked their way through felled men and horses alike, a cart already half full of bodies pulled by an aurochs teetering along behind them. A few meters away, Bones had his head buried in the belly of a dead horse, tugging off bits of meat and hauling out entrails to reward himself. 

“Seven hells, is he always such a savage little bugger?” Sam asked, looking to James as he poured a bit of water over his head to clear the blood and grime out of his eyes. 

“You talk like you’ve never seen him fight before,” James replied, and whistled high and sharp, to call Bones back to him. The wolf’s fur was matted with blood from both his meal and the battle, so he shook himself out, and loped back to James. 

“I can’t say I have,” Sam laughed as he passed the water along to Natalia. 

“Well then I’ll tell you it’s better he’s on our side,” Natalia added in as she too took a swig of water, wiped some over her face, then over her hair. 

“That much I know,” the knight replied, and watched James pat Bones’ neck where his fur was thickest. Steven had been quiet as the three of his friends talked, though he listened and took the skin of water when it was offered to him. James nudged his friend’s elbow with his own, drawing Steven’s attention from where he’d been staring out across the field. 

“Alright?” The knight asked, quiet, to keep it between the two of them. 

“Quite,” Lord Tully replied, patting James’ leg, before using it as leverage to push himself to his feet. “I think we should be headed back. The sun will set soon, and you all need your rest. You did well today,” he told them all, a soft smile on his lips. Natalia was the first to rise, heaving her greastword Widow from the dirt at her feet and sliding it into the sheath that lay across her back, before holding out a hand for Sam. Steven did the same for James, hauling him to his feet as well before they searched out their horses, and rode back to camp. 

The four of them ate together outside Natalia’s tent as the sun sunk below the horizon, poultry and a brace of rabbits that some of the young pages had caught during the day. They sat around the fire until it was well and truly dark, and by then, they all figured it was past time they needed to retire to their own beds to attempt to get some rest. James of course followed Steven to his own tent, and there they stripped one another out of their armor, before falling into bed as well. For a while they talk, examine one another to see which bruises and scrapes and cuts the other had obtained during the day, before eventually drifting off to sleep. 

 

 

All in all, the battles last for three days, before it happens.

On the night of the third, the two armies had been fighting all through the morning, day, and evening, and continued on as the sun began to set. Steven was exhausted, and so were all the men he encountered, so he had managed to hide for a moment, simply to catch his breath when a horse tromped its way through the carnage, kicking up bloodied mood. The lord flinched, thinking it an enemy, but it was Natalia who called out to him from the dark of the night, and when he looked, he could see the red of her hair and armor flash in the glare of a nearby fire. 

“Lord Tully, it’s James,” she called, too loud, but she sounded breathless, and Steven paused for a moment, stunned. There was only so much those words could have meant, so he heaved himself up off the ground, his armor feeling even heavier than it had when he sat himself down. While the adrenaline from the days battle had worn off, numbed him slightly, fear began to rush through him as he pulled himself onto the horse Natalia rode--pointedly not hers, Sam’s or James’, Steven figured, but he couldn’t see it well enough to tell. She turned it fast once Lord Tully had his arms around her, and they charged back to camp, paying no mind to the battle that was beginning to trickle off behind them.  

“Is he alright?” Steven called over the horses’ heavy hoofbeats. Natalia’s hair had been shorn the day previous, her braid cut from her as she fought, but it still brushed Steven’s face as they rode, and somehow he could smell the blood on her. 

“An axe blow to his left shoulder,” she answered, after a few moments, and the lord felt his stomach drop. 

Everything in him fell, really, and he felt clammy under his leathers and mail, sick in a way that made him desperately wish that Natalia would stop to let him off. But camp was far, or at least it felt far then, and Steven needed to get there, to be with his friend and make sure he would be alright. The possibility of the opposite was incomprehensible. It simply couldn’t happen. 

When Natalia reigned her horse up in front of one of the many indistinguishable tents, Steven swung down immediately, boots squelching in the mud as he landed, and marched toward the tent they had stopped in front of. He heard Natalia do the same, and hand her horse off to someone else, before following Lord Tully. 

The tent was filled with the stifling, cloying scent of blood heavy in the warm air, and behind him the tent flap gave another vicious snap as Natalia entered as well. Steven breathed out a sigh, eyes locked on the small bed in the middle of the room. 

With the dark stains of blood, and the maesters crowded round the cot, it was hard to tell that there was a person lying there at all, but as he moved closer, Lord Tully could make out the face of his friend. 

"James," he croaked, his voice breaking immediately, and maester Strange turned his attention to his lord for just a moment, eyes frenzied and his grey robes soiled. 

"My lord, you should leave, we have yet to stop the bleeding and he - refuses milk of the poppy - "

Steven had no idea how to respond, let alone what to do, where to start--"Why... - he..."

"Your lordship, we need to quell the bleeding first and dress the wound or he will die," the maester added, then turned back to James. 

Inching closer to the bed, Steven tried to glance between the other maesters, who must have been Northerners, only to catch a glimpse of James' face, caked with blood and dirt. 

"Leave us," came his voice, withered and quiet as Steven had ever heard it. Where he couldn't feel much else, the lord felt the heat and damp of tears on his cheeks, though he wasn't sure if it was from the race to the camps, or seeing James so wounded. 

"Ser," maester Strange murmured, "once you are in stable enough condition, we will give you two the time you deserve. But otherwise you will die. Here, lift your head, and drink if you can." 

He slid a hand beneath James' neck and brought a cup of opaque white drink to his lips, but the knight only let it touch them, before twisting away from the maester's grip. 

"I'll die either way, and I would prefer my last moments clear," James replied, remarkably articulate for his state, but it was perhaps the shock. "Get out." 

While Steven didn't believe (didn't want to believe) his friend would die, he wanted the time alone with James, just in case. "Get out," he echoed, lifting his eyes to look at the four maesters. They all froze, glancing between Steven and their charge.

"Get out!" The lord bellowed, overcome with panic, and a feeling he didn't recognize. His voice still shook. 

Maester Strange have him a long, almost melancholy look, before placing the bowl with milk of the poppy in it on a table beside the bed, and motioning to the others to follow him out of the tent. 

It was quiet again when they were gone, fire cracklings quietly in stands at the corners of the tent, and the wind pushing at the leather from outside. 

"You're crying," James said, looking at Steven now that they were alone. His bright eyes were glassy, the light of the flames catching in them as they moved. Steven took a step forward and pushed a gloved hand over his cheeks, feeling dried blood and dirt rub off on his skin.

"Come here. I'm fine," James added, his good hand flexing open on the bed, and a small smile gracing his lips. It was just like him, Steven thought, to say such a thing at a time like this. Still, though, he went to his friend's side, resting one knee on the bed to lean over him a bit. 

Hands hovering for a moment, Steven looked at the gaping wound where James' arm had nearly been cleaved off at his shoulder. Grisly business, it was, and blood still pumped from it sluggishly, soaking into the cloth below and around him. The maesters had stripped him of his armor above the waist, and it lay discarded in the corner of the room. 

"No you're not. And where was I," Steven murmured, reaching down to take his friend's good hand in both of his. 

"Fighting, just like I was. War, you know." Again, his lips twitched in something like a smile, but Steven couldn't return it. And he wanted to reply to that, but words escaped him. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered, at a loss for anything else. Raising one hand, he pushed James's hair away from his forehead where it was stuck with drying blood. There was blood more places than there wasn't, and it stunned Steven, somehow, that there was so much of it. Hardly any of James's skin wasn't covered in the stuff, and where it oozed out of him is black, dark and shining in the low light where it collected between bone and sinew, muscle and skin. 

The sight turned Steven's  stomach only because this was James. Nothing was so important to him as this man, and he feared for the life he might have to lead after James is gone. He couldn't think about it at the time in specifics, but all he could feel was the chill of fear. 

"No," James said, and he sounded lighthearted in a sense, almost calm. "Don't start that. I'm perfectly fine. It wasn't your fault." He squeezed his friend's hand, though it was weak. 

"I don't know why I wasn't - there why I didn't - " Steven began, but James shook his head on the pillow. 

"Stop. It's over and done with. You're with me now." James squeezes his friend's hand again, a little harder, which was probably as much as he could. Steven inhaled deeply, the smell of blood almost choking him, but he sighs and nods, looking around at the bed. 

They're silent, Steven leaning over James's body to try and press a cloth to his wound to stop the bleeding, but the knight winces, and pushes at Steven's arm. "Just stay with me, I'm alright," he said.

"Stop saying that, and I will," Steven replied, and smiled, but it was more for James than anything else. 

"Good," he sighed, eyes closing for a moment, before they opened again, and reeled back to settle on Steven's face. He was still crying, whether he was aware of it or not. "I fear for you without me," James said, but smiled wanly. Steven choked out a laugh, though it was more of a sob.

"As do I," he replied, nodding. They looked at one another, silent for a while then, as James's eyelids began to get heavy. 

"Come, lay down with me, at least.” James released Steven’s hand, both men’s hands a bit tacky with drying blood. The lord nodded stiffly before he began to move, pulling his armor away from his body quickly, and then delicately stretching himself out in the space next to his friend. It wasn’t the easiest thing  to do, as he took care not to jostle James as much as possible, but finally Steven managed to lay out next  to him, taking his good hand once more. 

“I love you, you know,” Steven said quietly, looking at his friend’s face, wan as it was. “Very much.” James’s head turns sluggishly to return the lord’s gaze, and he attempted to smile back. 

“I do. And I love - you,” he returned, though his voice caught in his throat a little, whether from the pain or emotion, Steven didn’t know. “I’m quite tired, though so... perhaps... I’m going to close my eyes... perhaps you should do the same.” 

 

-

 

Natalia wakes to the low, melancholy howl splitting the air of the mostly silent camp. It seems to go on and on, and when Bones seems to run out of breath, he simply pauses, and starts up again, the eerie sound ringing in her ears. She hadn’t slept well, as she had made her bed on the ground, close as she could to the tent James had been brought to, and where Lord Tully had stayed the whole night. As she rose, she winced at the stiffness in her limbs, and looked here and there for Bones, for where his wailing might have come from. The dawn was grey and cool, but otherwise dry, and the smoldering of cook-fires sent plumes of smoke up to join the clouds. 

A few shouts went up to try and quell the wolf’s howling, but of course he wouldn’t listen, and his dirge went on. Natalia inhaled deeply as she pushed her hair  back from her face, or what was left of it, and picked up her sword belt, though she knew she would not be needing it today. She wasn’t sure if she should even enter the tent, or what she would see, but at least making sure that Steven wasn’t still inside seemed necessary. Or that was the reason she gave herself, anyhow, as she curled her fingers around the leather flap, and glanced inside. 

The air was rank with the scent of death, and it nearly made her choke and fall back from the tent’s entrance, but inside, through the dim light, she could still make out the two figures on the bed. Swallowing hard, Natalia pushed her way inside, pulling up the strip of cloth she kept tied around her neck up over her nose and mouth. It did little to block the putrid smell in the tent, but she stepped further in, her eyes adjusting to the low light, now that the torches inside had all smoldered out. 

“Lord Tully,” she said, low and muffled behind the cloth. On the bed, Steven is laid out next to James--or James’s body, rather. His chest was still, sunken and hollow, even, and next to his friend, who still drew breath; it was easy to see that James was dead. Natalia drew in a shuddering breath, staring at the knight’s face for a moment, and knowing that now was not her time to grieve. 

Turning her attention to Steven, she noticed his eyes were open, glassy as they were. “My lord,” she said again, moving forward until she stood at the side of the bed, close enough to reach out and touch Steven’s hand. “You shouldn’t be here any longer,” she whispered, glancing again to the corpse lying next to the lord. He had to have died hours ago, from the sight and smell of him. 

Steven’s eyes moved to her, but the rest of his body remained still. It was startling to say the least, but instead of flinching, she clenched her teeth together, and looked him in the eye. “You need to let the silent sisters come and do their work,” she said quietly again, as if she would disturb the silence of the room. Outside, however, Bones’s yawl droned on, pausing here and there. 

“Have them build a pyre,” Steven replied, voice tight and dry. “He doesn’t want to be tended to in the faith of the Seven.” 

Natalia felt ill looking at the lord and how stricken he himself seemed, how content he apparently was to share a bed with a corpse, and how he referred to James as if he were merely sleeping. “Rise, and help me then. Build it for him, he would want it that way.” She extended her hand for him, which he looked at, as if he were suspicious. 

Swallowing, the lord blinked heavily before his eyes slid sideways to look at the body of his friend for a moment, as his hand rose from the bed slowly, to take Natalia’s. She didn’t wait to coax him up, away from the bed, though his steps were sluggish as if he were in some sort of trance, or drunk, even. They made their way from the tent, and Natalia finally tugged the cloth away from her face to take a deep lungful of fresh air. She couldn’t imagine why, or even how Steven had stayed in that tent the whole night, but grief often pushed people to terrible lengths. 

Their way through camp was quick, and at the lord’s tent, Natalia left his side for a moment to find Sam and hurriedly tell him what had gone on, what to do, before she pushed Steven into his tent. There, she stripped herself of her armor, before returning to Steven to guide him to a shallow basin of water near the bed. She pulled his hands, lax, into the water, and wet the cloth that rested over the side of the bowl, then began to wipe his hands clean of James’s blood. 

-

The pyre went up in the center of a clearing near the camp, backed on one side by trees and open to the Blackwater on the other. Once the word had gotten out that Ser James Stark, and that the pyre was for him, some began to fill the clearing, Northmen, wildlings, men of the Riverlands, and Southerns alike. The Silent Sisters made their way along the Blackwater's shore, carrying, between four of them, the body on a long plank of wood. 

His skin was free of blood and grime, eyes closed and hair laid out around his face as if he had been asleep. The only ornament he wore was a white shroud, emblazoned with the grey direwolf of house Stark, which also served to cover his fatal wound. The sisters settle him atop the pyre, and leave for the others to pay their respects. 

From the rim of the crowd that had gathered, Steven Tully watched as wildlings laid necklaces of bone, gemstones, and trinkets of gold and steel, and even their own spears around James's body. The Northerners knelt by the wooden construct, silent in prayer, and at times, bade him goodbye. Lord Bolton pulled a dirk from his sword belt, a shining thing wrought in steel and bone, and rested it alongside James's arm. 

Natalia was one of the last to approach, and when she did, she found a foothold in the wood, and hoisted herself up to press a kiss to his lips. It lingered, and when she turned back to resume her place next to Lord Tully, she wiped at her cheeks, and held her head high. Steven had never seen her cry, nothing even close, and it was disconcerting. 

In the hours between the gathering at the pyre, and when Natalia had gathered him from the tent, Steven had put on some semblance of composure for this. His eyes were swollen with tears, and he wondered idly if the scent of death had clung to his clothes, because he could still smell it here and there. It stopped turning his stomach hours and hours ago. 

As the ebb and flow of men and women who wanted to pay their respects dragged on, Lord Piper made her way to Steven, embracing him tightly for a moment, before pressing a hand to his cheek silently, and taking her place in the crowd again. The King arrived soon after, his two sons somberly in tow, and all three offered Steven their condolences. 

It was then that he had had enough of waiting. Taking the flint from a page, he lit the prepared torch and nearly ripped it from the boy's hand, before striding to the pyre. He looked at James's face for what felt like a long while, etching the sight into his mind along with all the other memories he had of the man, then tossed the torch onto the bottom tiers of the pyre. Slowly, Steven took a few steps back, unable to look at the growing fire until the pyre was engulfed, and James’s figure was nothing but a shadow. As he turned back to take his place in the crowd, Steven looked to Maester Strange, who stood by as well. 

"Send a raven to the Lannister encampment. I want a meeting with him on the morrow," Steven said, quiet, but so the maester could hear him. Facing the pyre once more, The Lord blinked at the flames. "No men at arms, just the two of us. Well," he looked to Natalia, "I want you with me." 

She tilted her head to gaze at him, and nodded her agreement after a few moments. He, on the other hand, looked back to the fire now blazing in the middle of the clearing. “I leave for Winterfell in two days’ time.” 

-

The next morning was just as grey as the one before it, though a light snow began to trickle down from the clouds when Steven emerged from his tent. His armor felt heavier than it ever had, and that mounting his horse felt like the most strenuous thing he would do all day. With the reigns in his hands, he gave his charger a gentle kick, and she started off at a slow canter toward where Natalia waited for him near the banks of the Blackwater. She looked tired, even in her suit of armor that on an average day, made her look like the fiercest thing in the Seven Kingdoms. Today, however, she appeared worn down, beaten, perhaps, but so did Steven. He gave her a nod, and they started off west, toward the battlefield. 

For the past two days, Bones had been slinking in and out of the little copses of threes that clustered around the river, hunting and howling for hours on end. It was his sort of mourning, Steven figured, so he let the wolf be. Not long into their journey, Steven’s horse shied right for a moment, and when he had steadied her, he looked down to see Bones trotting along next to them. The sight was almost enough to make him smile, but not quite. 

“We have another rider,” he said to Natalia instead, and she did give a small smile when she caught sight of the direwolf. 

In his letter to the Lannister boy, Steven had made their meeting place a low bluff just outside the field their two forces had been meeting on. Naturally, he and Natalia arrived first, though they stayed atop their horses, waiting in the wind and snow. 

It didn’t take long for Anthony Lannister to emerge out of the misty grass, a single mounted figure that galloped up the knoll to meet them. It was the first time that Steven had laid eyes on the boy, and really he looked older than sixteen, already with a thin black beard, and a strong looking build, or perhaps that was simply his armor. He was adorned simply, in burnished armor embellished with a lion’s head, and crimson leathers under it. Dark of hair, he was... uncommon looking, for a Lannister. 

“I thought you said no men,” Anthony called as he reigned his horse to a halt in front of Steven and Natalia. Lord Tully kept his eyes on the boy. 

“I see no men here but you and I, my lord,” he replied, and any other day, he would have smirked, but today he had no stomach for hubris. The Lannister turned his blue eyes to Natalia for a moment, sizing her up and frowning, before returning his attention to Steven. 

“Very well. I suppose it would be a tale to tell, meeting Natalia of Braavos. And I hear condolences are in order, my lord,” he said with a small smile, and his horse kicked anxiously at the ground. “I believe you wanted words with me, Lord Tully, so make them heard. We’re putting off a war for this, now why am I here?” 

His bristling demeanor was no surprise, and Steven didn’t care. He wasn’t here to listen to the Lannister boy, anyhow. 

“I have no need for your condolences. I’ve come to give you the terms of your surrender,” he started, voice hard. “I am returning North on the morrow, and, if you fail to lay down your arms and surrender to our King and Protector of the Realms, I hand over my forces, and the forces of the North to Natalia.” 

Looking at the Lannister lord alone made Steven’s anger flare, but he kept his composure, and gauged the boy’s reaction. Suffice to say, he didn’t take the words seriously. 

“Surrender? I think you have me mistaken, my lord, I c- “ The tone in his voice was enough to tell Steven how this would end. He tuned out the lord’s words, and glanced to Natalia. 

“I’m not asking you to surrender, I’m telling you that you will, or your forces will be decimated. Enough men have died already for your folly cause, and I wish to see an end to it,” Steven said, gripping his reigns tight. “If you refuse, I promise you, Natalia will do her best to send you back to whichever of the Seven hells bore you here.” 

Next to him, Natalia pulled her greatsword from its sheath, and Steven watched Anthony’s eyes flickered to the black blade. Steven glanced at her as well. 

“Think on it, your lordship.” 

 

-

 

When his pyre had guttered out, the Silent Sisters collected James’s bones, at Lord Tully’s command, and wrapped them in a mantle made of grey velvet, and trimmed in ermine. The box was heavy wood, black and simple, and when Steven looked upon it, he didn’t know what to feel. Crushing sadness, of course, but one he knew he was going to have to live with, one that he would need to let settle in the bottom of his heart. The hole where James used to be. And he knew full well that he would _need_ to live with this, he was Lord of the Riverlands, and would no doubt one day need to marry and produce and heir, all the things that lords did. 

He had intended on doing all of that, in good time, but with James at his side, and now that was... changed. It felt something like the time when he was a boy, just as he and some of the other boys, including James, were learning to ride, and Steven’s horse had been too unruly. The beast didn’t respond to the command of the reigns, and tossed him off just moments after he had slid into the saddle. Afterward, his head had hurt, and he was dizzy for hours, but no bones were broken. This felt similar. 

Bones stood by as Steven tied the box down behind his saddle, along with his other belongings for the journey back to Winterfell. By the time he arrived, Lord Stark would have received his raven, and they would no doubt have funeral services of their own. In time, they would inter James’s bones in the crypts beneath his castle, build a stone visage of him to stand vigil side by side with his ancestors, and there he would rest. Above, his successors would rule Winterfell for years and years to come, no doubt still allies with the Tully’s in the south, though Steven would be long gone as well. 

**Author's Note:**

> If I have the energy, there may be an epilogue soon.


End file.
